Return to Power
by Claywind
Summary: Voldemort considered his actions so far. It seemed that, in trying to prevent the prophecy, he had fulfilled it. Stuck inside the body of the child he had intended to kill, he could not deny that he had been, for all intents and purposes, vanquished by an infant. The question, now, was how he was going to return to power.
1. Killing Curse

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything but the plot (and I'm sure this plot-idea has already been explored at least once somewhere)

 **Rating:** T for adult themes and swearing

 **Warnings:** Spoilers for the whole Harry Potter series. Seriously, Voldemort is the main character, so all of his secret plans will be revealed, dear readers. If you haven't read Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows yet, (then why are you reading HP fanfic?) you're going to be spoiled.

 **Chapter 1:** Killing Curse

Lord Voldemort stepped over Lily Potter's corpse.

The witch had refused to stand aside, even when he had offered – thrice – to let her live. Instead she had pleaded him to spare her child, despite knowing full well that he was here for him and him alone. He walked to the cradle where his target was crying loudly and sensed powerful protective magic swirl around the little creature.

He glanced at the witch's corpse. Had she had the time and presence of mind to cast a ward over her spawn? A furtive glint of respect flashed in his eyes for the dead woman.

His attention snapped back to the cradle and the infant lying in it. He ran a few checking spells but could not pinpoint exactly what that strange magic was.

He paused and considered his options.

He could leave, do some research and come back later and better prepared to destroy his tiny nemesis. Avoiding confrontation with a defenceless baby seemed absurd – cowardly – but only Gryffindors cared for foolish heroics. Slytherins were more about self-preservation and he was, after all, the ultimate Slytherin.

But if he left now, he strongly doubted that he would be able to find the child again. He owed the information to Pettigrew, who would be exposed soon, which forced him to act now.

Maybe he could kidnap the child? Raising Harry Potter to become his pawn and follower held a delicious irony, one he could not help but want to make happen. After all, he liked to surround himself with powerful wizards; and a wizard prophesied to vanquish him could only be powerful. Furthermore, if he later changed his mind about killing the child, he would have easy access to him.

While tempting, this option left too much room for Harry Potter to escape his control, be rescued by the Light side of his war or even end up growing more powerful than him and choose to replace him as the new Dark Lord. The possibility of betrayal was too annoying to allow, and he quickly shot that plan down.

No, his future enemy needed to die, tonight.

His decision taken, Voldemort pointed his wand at the wailing child. If someone had walked in this instant, they would have seen the glimmer of something akin to regret on the Dark Lord's expression, but all the other occupants of the house were dead and a mask of cruelty soon deformed Voldemort's almost human face.

" _Avada kedavra._ "

There was no hesitation. The intent behind the spell was absolute as the green beam shot from his wand and struck the child.

And the blood wards sprang to life.

And the killing curse rebounded.

Pain sliced through him; an unbearable suffering that reduced the Cruciatus curse to a tickling charm.

His soul, made unstable by the multiple horcruxes he had created, was almost broken under the strain, but he placed all of his will into maintaining it whole. He could not afford to fragment his mind again; his sanity would not endure it. Focused on maintaining his soul intact, he could not stop it from being torn from his body.

The pain stopped immediately, washed away by a wave of cold numbness, and he felt his strength and his magic bleed away in the nether. For a fraction of eternity, he drifted, too shocked to even think about what to do. Then, his self-preservation kicked in and, by a monumental effort of will, he forced himself into the closest living receptacle around.

He felt the innocent, delicate mind of the other recoil at his contact, like a small creature touched by fiendfyre. Good. He was definitely not sharing his new body. He burned it again for good measure, and then smothered the tiny conscience within him, intent on destroying it completely. The frail mind burned; its cry a note of purity as it agonized. When the soundless cry stopped, the silence was bearing the death of innocence.

Stuck inside the body of the baby he had tried to kill, weakened beyond everything he could have believed possible, Voldemort contemplated his actions so far.

He should have gone with plan one.

Ѻ

 **This is a weird plot that kind of... happened in my mind, at some point, and then I had to start writing, but I have no idea where it's going. So... yeah.**

 **Enjoy**


	2. Abandonment

**Don't own anything, really, I swear.**

 **Chapter 2:** Abandonment

The roaring of the flying engine was deafening.

Securely tucked in the arms of a motorcycle-piloting half-giant, Tom Riddle – formerly known as Lord Voldemort, and currently known as Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived – was looking at the starlit sky with a bored eye, trying to make sense of his situation.

Namely, the jarring fact that, out of all the possible candidates, it was the Groundskeeper of Hogwarts, who had whisked him away from Godric's Hollow. He did not understand _why_ Rubeus Hagrid would be the one to retrieve the Potter child and not Black or Lupin. Were those two not James Potter's best friends? The memories he had torn from Pettigrew's mind had strongly suggested they were. He knew for a fact that Black was the child's godfather, so _where_ was he? Running around the small settlement in search of the Dark Lord who had murdered the Potters? Or looking for the rat who had betrayed the Light side? Instead of taking care of his _newly orphaned_ godson?

Considering what he had heard of Regulus' elder brother, that would actually be rather plausible.

Tom was getting to why Lupin was not around, when he remembered that the moon had been full only two nights ago, which meant that the frail werewolf – he mentally snorted at that – was still recovering from his monthly ordeal.

So. That left him with Hagrid, probably acting on Dumbledore's orders, the meddling fool.

Contrarily to what he would have expected from a creature of his size and strength, the half-giant had handled him with great care and gentleness, murmuring soothing words with his gravelly voice. Being shown such concern by someone who should hate and fear him was rather disconcerting, but Tom delighted in the irony.

Then the reminder that he had been defeated by a _rebounding_ killing curse – which was absolutely not fair – dampened his spirits. Vanquished by an infant. Or by a dead mudblood's lucky shot, whichever sounded worse. He wanted to scream against the unfairness of it all.

Killing curses did not bounce back, for Merlin's sake! They could not be blocked; they went through everything until they found a target, that's what made them so deadly! All his hatred and rage at the world twisted harshly within him and he scowled, which was probably not as scary as he was used to.

His grand master plan, shot to hell because Magic had decided to screw the rules.

Staring at the starlit sky, he sighed in annoyance. Everyone was going to believe that he was dead. In fact, the Wizarding World was certainly celebrating right now. At the very least, in this entire disaster, there was one positive consequence, if he could call it that.

No one would be prepared when he would rise again.

And rise again he would, because there was simply no way he was not going to change the world. The question was merely how.

His plans had been delayed and he had no doubt that his devoted, loyal, _faithful_ followers would betray the cause the instant he was out of the picture. Most were Slytherin; self-preservation defined them. He was pretty sure Malfoy would be the first to claim innocence – the sly bastard – and he would not have it any other way. His Death Eaters would be of no use to him in Azkaban and he did not expect – or even want – his allies to sacrifice their lives for him, should he truly die.

Which, by the way, was not happening.

A giddy feeling stirred in his stomach as he contemplated his triumph. The Killing Curse had struck him, torn him from his body, and he was still there. He was still there, very much alive, his mind intact and his magic as strong as ever.

He had vanquished Death.

He wanted to laugh and dance in glee. He would never actually do so (mind you, he had some dignity) but still, the feeling was there and it was strong.

The gut-twisting sensation of the rapidly descending motorcycle brought him back to reality. Their landing was surprisingly smooth for such a boisterous engine and Tom soon found himself cradled in the half-giant's arms.

Snippets of conversations reached his ears but they were muffled by the sound of the engine. He recognized Dumbledore's voice and felt a distinct twinge of aggravation.

 _Nosy old fool always sticking his nose in my business…_

Then, the word "muggle", spoken by an elderly witch – McGonagall – caught his attention and, as the content of their exchange made itself clearer, he began to shake in his blankets.

No. They were not going to do that. They could not. They could not leave him on this porch, on a freezing November night, to be raised by _muggles_.

And, according to McGonagall, those were 'the worst sort of muggles' she had ever seen and Dumbledore was going to leave a child, whom anyone in the Wizarding World would gladly take under their roof, to be raised by magic-hating muggles?

Were they _insane_?

Ѻ

 **Are they ? What-a-twist !**


	3. Family matters

Don't own the HP franchise. Never did, never will.

 **Chapter 3:** Family matters

The answer was yes.

It had not taken Tom much time to establish it either. After spending the whole freezing night in the slowly fading warmth of his blankets' Heating Charms, he had been stumbled upon by the terrestrial equivalent to a whale and, after much shouting back and forth between said whale and a thin, wiry woman, had been thrown into a dark, disgusting, cupboard under dusty stairs.

So, to anyone who might have asked him his opinion on the old fool who had deemed it necessary to leave an innocent one year old – assuming that the headmaster did not know whose mind and soul actually inhabited the child's body – in such a horrid place, he would definitely affirm that, yes, Dumbledore was insane.

In fact, the old coot was so far past the point of insanity that it came right around to being absolute genius… that is, if this 'charming adoptive family' was actually an elaborate torture sentence. But that would mean that Dumbledore knew he was still alive and, as benevolent as the Wizarding World seemed to view the paragon of Light that was Dumbledore, Tom knew the elderly wizard was too pragmatic to let a Dark Lord live without some kind of secondary precautions.

And these potential precautions were the _only reason_ the disgusting muggles were still breathing.

His magic was surprisingly still as strong as it was when he had his own body, perhaps even a bit stronger, due to his absorbing part of the child's yet-undeveloped soul. It would be easy, so easy to cast a Killing Curse at the three and be rid of them… although, considering his last experience with the curse, he felt rather reluctant to use it again. If he was honest with himself, he would admit that he was probably becoming too reliant on it.

The Unforgivable Curses were useful and deadly, of course, but he should remember to keep his arsenal diversified. It was well and good to ingrain fear into his followers' mind – as well as show defiance to a corrupt political system that banished any form of magic deemed uncontrollable – but monotony was to be avoided in the future.

A Dark Lord should _not_ be predictable.

Satisfied with his resolution – wasn't it fascinating how a small change of perspective could bring light to some of his minor flaws? – he returned his musings to his muggle predicament. Killing them would be easy, but could he afford to? Dumbledore might very well be watching him. Perhaps a less drastic reaction was the key to his problem.

He had always been good at wandless magic – even as a child – and his new imprisonment had not dampened his skills, as proved the small floating sphere of red light he had conjured the minute after he had been locked in.

He had his magic and all the memories he needed to use it. All of his knowledge and power were still available to him; he was the most powerful wizard in Britain, so why despair?

No, the only question was how could he better his new situation?

He had handled everything Wool's orphanage had thrown at him. Muggles were not about to make his life hell again. If he played his cards right, they would not even be an inconvenience.

In the middle of the night, when he was certain that the muggles were deeply asleep, he got up, unlocked the door of his cupboard, and silently climbed up the stairs leading to their room – all the while cursing his fifteen months old body.

Luckily – not that luck had anything to do with it, he was just well-prepared – he had thrown a few silencing charms beforehand.

He eventually reached the top of the stairs and, another silencing charm later, opened the door to the adult muggles' bedroom without a sound. He crawled under their bed, this time actually satisfied of his small size, and mentally whispered a complex incantation. The tip of his right index started to glow soft reddish light and he used it to trace patterns on the slightly dusty floor.

Once the complex array of lines, circles and runes had been drawn, he extended his finger over the centre of the pentagram and murmured the second part of the incantation. He barely winced at the sharp pain that flashed at the tip of his digit, staring intently at the drop of blood slowly forming there.

It fell precisely where it should have. The lines of the pentagram glowed for a few seconds and then dimmed to nothingness. With a satisfied smirk, Tom crawled out of the bed and glanced at the reddish magic pulsing around the two sleeping muggles.

Once morning came, there would be no trace of his ritual left.

Ѻ

 **What should he do next ? I think the next chapter will skip some years...**

 **Mwehehehe.**

 **As usual, comments are much appreciated.**


	4. Never heard of magic

Still don't own anything. Surprise !

 **Chapter 4:** Never heard of magic

"There's a letter for you, Master."

Tom looked up from his breakfast at the thick envelope that his servant was holding to him. Noticing the green ink, he took the letter and dismissed the woman with a hand gesture. She turned back to the oven, making herself busy with the breakfast.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed the piglet, scurrying away. Tom waved a hand and smiled thinly at the pained yelp in the hallway. He ignored the way the woman tensed at the sound. The muggle was inconsequential, and besides, he was not going to bring lasting harm to her spawn.

Yet.

Even though they could mostly use their free will, his muggles were well-trained. Of course, it was thanks to his ritual, which made them extremely susceptible to his suggestions. Coupled with a heavy dose of intimidation and subtle manipulations, there was practically no chance of rebellion, as long as they feared what he _could_ do to them more than what he already did.

It was a delicate balance, that fear. If you went past a certain point, panic would overrule all logical thought, causing the muggles to lash out or run. Magic had helped turn this razor edge of a path into something more manageable, but he had to keep in mind that a false step could induce that primal fight or flight response.

And he was not going to underestimate a mother's determination to protect her child a second time.

He skimmed over the content of the Hogwarts letter. Very little had changed in fifty years, most notably the headmaster – damn the old coot – and the deputy Headmistress. Among the books, the herbology, history and potions textbooks were the same as he had first learned with.

"You will drive me to London today," he told his servant, not bothering to acknowledge her curt nod.

He had a shopping trip and a grand entrance in the Wizarding World to prepare.

Ѻ

The Leaky Cauldron was as dusty and grimy as the last time he had visited – although the clientele was not screaming and running for the door.

"Bless my soul," the barman boomed, "is that Harry Potter?"

All eyes turned to him.

"It's Arthur Jenkins, actually," he answered, feeling rather like a slab of meat in the middle of a pack of dogs.

It did not convince all the clients, but he did not linger to face the forming mob. Sprinting to the back of the pub, he came to a halt in front of the shifting wall that hid the entrance to Diagon Alley.

Right. No wand.

He glanced at the pub's door, where he could already hear scraping chairs and nearing footsteps.

Damn. They were on his trail. He channelled some magic at the tip of his finger and tapped the jutting bricks on the wall, hoping it would work.

The wall opened and he ran to the nearest dark alley for cover. He waited for the crowd to scatter or head back to the pub, and made his way to the end of the alley, where a tilted building held the chiefest – and only – wizarding bank of England.

First order of business: change his muggle money into galleons and sickles.

Two, buy a wand.

Three, take over the world.

Ѻ

The goblins were as welcoming as ever – that is to say, not at all – but they changed his muggle pounds without a fuss.

Tom then sneaked his way to Ollivander's, where the creepy old wizard took ages to match him with a wand all while muttering cryptic statements in that high whispery voice that was both eerie and annoying.

Armed with his new wand – though he was intent on getting back his old one at some point – he cast a Notice-me-not on himself (overpowered for safety) and marched to the apothecary which was the nearest.

After three attempts at catching the clerk's attention – engrossed in a recent specimen of _Monthly Potions_ – Tom gave it up as a lost cause and walked out with his unpaid ingredients.

 _Flourish and Blotts_ would have held all sorts of interesting books, if he had been an actual eleven-years-old. As it was, he grabbed the required texts from his list and decided to go browse the bookshops in Knockturn Alley at the soonest occasion.

The witch at the counter ignored him in favour of a couple behind him in the line. He cleared his throat, but there was no reaction, from either the witch or the couple.

Patience thoroughly spent, he stomped off the bookstore, magic lashing out at the unsuspecting crowd.

Stupid wizards who could not pay attention to their surroundings.

Ѻ

It was when he reached Madame Malkin's that he noticed he was still under the Notice-me-not charm.

He looked at his stolen potion ingredients and books.

 _If anyone asks, they were gifts._

Ѻ

 **Apologies for the delay. Life became complicated, and I had to stop most recreational activities for a while. I haven't posted much on this story in a while, but here it is.**

 **I'm still not entirely clear where this is going, though I have a pretty good idea what will happen in the next chapter.**

 **After that... it could either go in a rather dark/serious direction or jump to the deep end of weirdness. Not sure yet what I'll do with it, especially since I want to focus on** ** _Remus_** **and** ** _The Bringer off Ashes_** **.**

 **Oh, we'll see.**


	5. The Hat

I solemnly swear I don't own the Potterverse.

 **Chapter 5:** The Hat

Tom spent the rest of the summer doing nothing of importance.

When September first rolled around, he got his muggles servants to drive him to King's Cross, where he found platform 9 ¾ and boarded the train early.

The ride was uneventful and if his – magically locked, warded and cursed – compartment's door rattled from time to time, he simply rolled his eyes, ignored the following yelps of pain, and got back to reading his book.

Knockturn Alley had once again come through with the most fascinating read. Who knew haruspices could read more details in the entrails of magical creatures than regular animals? And some breeds were more suited to certain lines of questioning. The chapter on magical equines and their potency in auspices of growth filled him with so many questions.

There were unicorns in the Forbidden Forest, were they not?

Ѻ

The train slowed, and he closed his book. Having changed to his school robes as soon as was humanly and decently possible, he simply put it in his pocket, with the other things he had found in Knockturn. Leaving them in his trunk would be too risky, even if his trunk was also in his pocket.

He loved expanding charms.

The next ten minutes were spent dispelling the lock, wards and curses on his door, and, when he finally opened it, the train was empty.

He hurried outside, and, from the platform, quickly peered towards the lake, where he spotted the first years.

On the boats.

Glancing around, he cast another Notice-me-not charm on himself and snuck towards the last carriage for the castle. A glance at the closing door revealed it filled with a gaggle of giggling Hufflepuffs, and he paused.

Missing the first-years' boat ride over the lake, was one thing. Being trapped in a carriage with teenage girls cooing over the 'poor lost little firstie' was another thing entirely, one that his dignity would not let him recover from.

Tom climbed on the coach driver seat and added a disillusionment charm to the Notice-me-not.

It was time for stealth.

Ѻ

He was not sure how he managed to join the first years without anyone noticing anything, but, if asked, he would claim natural skill.

Some redhead next to him was shaking in his robes and muttering about fighting trolls.

"Just charge it and yell," he advised. "It'll be too surprised that something is attacking instead of running away like everyone does, and it won't think to fight back."

"Oh, yeah," the redhead nodded. "That's a pretty good idea. Thanks."

"You're welcome."

If the Sorting ceremony had somehow changed in the ten centuries it had perdured, then it would probably not be replaced by troll-fighting. Also, now, he had a meat shield just in case.

McGonagall chose this moment to scare the first years into behaving (not him, obviously, he had only startled because she came out of nowhere).

Great hall, floating candles, four long tables, hundreds of children and teenagers staring at them, head table and-

Dumbledore.

He carefully held back his disdain, and hid it behind a bland, vaguely interested, expression. A glance told him the old wizard was looking at him.

And. Twinkling.

He hissed under his breath, making a pink-faced girl next to him flinch.

McGonagall's voice caught his attention again, and he quickly dismissed the girl. The old witch explained the Sorting ceremony – which was still decided via headwear – and called the first name on her list.

"Hannah Abbott."

The pink-faced girl stepped forth, pigtails bobbing in rythm, and sat on the stool.

Tha Hat remained on her head a handful of seconds before calling out a sonorous:

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

The badgers' table erupted in cheers, and Tom looked at the other firsties. A platinum blonde boy – Merlin, Lucius had spawned – was the only one he could identify on the fly. The other children were familiar, but not more than a vague resemblance to their parents, and he had not cared enough about his death eaters to really commit their family plans to memory.

The good thing about being Potter, was that no dark witch would ask him to bless their baby or pick their name. He was terrible at names. The lady Parkinson had likely had many regrets, but at least, none among the other expecting witches had tried to ask for a baby name after that one terrible suggestion.

"Pansy Parkinson."

Ah, yes. Pansy. As if school was not going to be hard enough on the pug-nosed girl.

"SLYTHERIN!"

As expected.

"Harry Potter."

Head high, he made his way to the stool, the way a monarch would to his throne.

 _"_ _Sort me to Ravenclaw,"_ he whispered to the Hat before it could speak.

In his mind. Just to be careful.

 _But you would do so well in Slytherin!_ the Hat replied.

 _"_ _Yes, I know,"_ he thought at the Hat. _"I already did. But now, I need to play a different game. I can't go to Slytherin, everyone will think I'm evil!"_ That it was true did not stop it from being annoying. Especially when it complicated his plans. _"I won't be able to go into politics, and run for Minister if I'm in one of the two extremes,"_ he added. _"I must look non-threatening, so I can gain favour with the dark and light spectrum. I need a House that is not at odds with the others! Sort me in Ravenclaw!"_

He could work the bookworm angle to his advantage.

 _Mmmh,_ the Hat hummed. _You want me to sort you where you do not fit? That makes no sense to me._

He frowned. Stupid piece of headwear. Maybe it would be swayed by feelings? He was above such things himself, but the Hat's ancestry was one quarter Slytherin and three quarters sentimental fools.

 _"_ _Please,"_ he entreated. _"It's really important! As Harry Potter, the Slytherin will hate me! I won't have any friends."_ He let his mental voice wobble a bit at this one. _"They might even try to kill me! Aren't you supposed to take student safety into consideration?"_

 _Very well,_ the Hat said after a long silence. _I will sort you not where you fit, but where you most need to be._

"Thank you," Tom grumbled.

 _You are welcome, strange little one. Welcome indeed._

He did not fight his satisfied smirk.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Ѻ

Tom blinked.

"What."

Ѻ

 **Hufflepuff is obviously the best house for the Dark Lord Voldemort.**

 **Of course, now, he'll have to rethink his plans. I'm leaning towards leading a peaceful Hufflepuff revolution to bring in a new era of peace and equality between muggleborn, half-bloods and purebloods. Or, you know, murder and terrorism.**

 **Because that worked so well the first time around.**


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